


State of Play

by moth2fic



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:29:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2208819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond invites the Fellowship to participate in board games. The results are surprising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Play

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bluegerl as a response to a prompt in Rubyelf's story swap comm on LJ. Unbeta'ed so if you notice any errors in plot, character, language, etc. just let me know!! Really!!

It was raining.

"I always imagined elves living in a state of perpetual sunshine," said Sam the previous evening when the skies were overcast.

"Not at all," said Bilbo. "They may be immortal but they're subject to all the other rules of the natural world."

Indeed, since their arrival in Rivendell Sam had come to see that elves were really quite ordinary beings, if you disregarded their beauty and agelessness. They ate, slept, laughed, quarrelled, generally living as if they were indeed common mortals, and the weather in their valley was surprisingly varied. It was a good job, he thought, that the clever architects who had designed the buildings here had allowed for rain. He listened to the water gurgling down pipes and dripping from corners before snuggling into the comfortable bed and trying to go back to sleep.

Merry and Pippin were having none of that. 

"Lie-ins," said Merry, "are for fauntlings, who should be encouraged to stay out of everyone's way at all times."

"And the aged," added Pippin, "because they deserve the kind of respect we have not yet earned. Hobbits, normal adult hobbits, should be up and about with daylight."

With that they dragged the covers from Sam, and from Frodo who had had similar ideas of a lazy morning, and alternately scolded and encouraged their friends to get up.

Breakfast was a dispirited affair despite tables groaning with good food.  
"The talking is all but over," said Frodo, "and I suspect there's little to interest the rest of us in the details that Gandalf, Strider and Elrond will be discussing later today."

"No adventures or explorations in this rain," said Pippin.

"Except for indoor ones," said Merry, who had fallen in love with elvish architecture and was even talking of introducing such outlandish things to Hobbiton.

"Indoor expeditions would probably lead to libraries or other places where we would have to be quiet," said Pippin, his face longer than usual, and his voice only a note away from a whine. 

"There are books to read," said Bilbo. Pippin's expression suggested that if Bilbo had not read enough books by now in his years in Rivendell he could at least keep his opinions to himself. Merry, too, looked dubious about books as a source of pleasure, though Frodo looked faintly interested. 

Elrond, who was eating a bowl of creamy eggs and mushrooms while he chatted to Gandalf, was a good host and an observant one. He was also, perhaps, possessed of good hearing. He recognised the frustration felt by his guests and to Sam's amazement, came up with a way of alleviating it.

"Friends," he said, addressing the entire company plus a few elves who were lingering over their own breakfasts. When he was sure he had everyone's attention he continued. "We have little to address today. Enough, to be sure, to make it impossible for you to set out on your quest straight away, but not enough to fill all the hours between now and night time. I thought perhaps we could indulge ourselves. The rain will keep everyone indoors, unless some of you have waterproof skins." He looked hard at all of them but as nobody admitted to any such thing he went on with his speech. "Elves sometimes stage contests on days when the skies are grey. Contests that contribute to building stronger friendships at the same time as honing skills." He looked around the fellowship as he spoke.

"What on earth could the contests be?" Sam was whispering to the other hobbits and hoped his words would not reach the elvish lord. "I don't altogether like the idea of grappling with a dwarf or an elf, and especially not with a huge man."

"If that's what he means I'm sure we’ll be paired by size," said Frodo, but that, thought Sam, still left the dwarf in their range.

"That would still mean hobbits contesting with each other," he said.

"Not exactly the way I wanted to fill a rainy morning," said Pippin, and the others agreed. 

"Games of skill?" That was Gandalf, sounding interested.

"Indoor games?" Boromir sounded dubious. 

"Board games," Strider corrected them. "Or at least that's what I assume is intended."

Board games! Of course! And those were just the thing to keep them happy and occupied. Sam sighed as he remembered hours playing various board games at different times in his life. 

"But would all the company know the same games?" Sam addressed his question to Bilbo but before the older hobbit could answer they heard Elrond explain.

"Yes, board games," said the Lord of Rivendell . "I asked some of my people to do a little research and it appears the races have most games in common although they may have different names for them. It will be interesting for you all to find out how your games are played elsewhere in Middle Earth. I suggest a tiered competition, with the company initially divided into fours. The winners of each level can move on to play each other until we have some finalists and we can all watch to see who will be the victor." He was clearly expecting agreement and nobody gainsaid him so when he was sure they'd all finished their breakfasts he led the way to one of the libraries where seats, wickedly comfortable seats, surrounded low tables. A venerable librarian and a trio of youngsters, probably as old again as Bilbo but young in elvish terms, carried boxes and boards to the tables and set them out. Pippin still looked askance at the books that surrounded them but seemed happy with the seating although he bounced a few times to make sure. 

 

When he found himself in a group comprising himself, Elrond, Boromir and Bilbo, Sam felt shy, awkward and determined all at once. The huge man and the stately elf overawed him, Bilbo, as an older and famous hobbit, overawed him a little too, and he saw himself fleetingly as he must appear to them: young, undereducated, and anything but famous. However, the other three were more than kind and he soon sat among them on a blissfully comfortable chair around a smoothly polished table and a game board. To his relief, there were cushions that allowed a hobbit to sink into their feathery depths just like the armchairs of a hobbit hole. 

"I can reach the table nicely," he said, and the bigger folk laughed.

"We care about the comfort of our guests," said Elrond, and Sam blushed, hoping he'd caused no offence. Boromir, he thought, might have to stoop a little but elves seemed flexible enough to curve and curl into the right positions. He stretched his feet out under the table until the hairs on his toes somehow touched Boromir's boots and he drew back in dismay. But the man hadn't noticed. Perhaps it was true that human feet did not have the sensitivity of hobbit feet. He couldn't imagine not being able to sense the world through his toes, or having to go shod through the world. 

Bilbo would probably understand his thoughts but he was too shy to share them with Frodo's venerated uncle. He glanced across at a similar table where Master Frodo sat with Strider, the wood elf and a very hairy dwarf. Maybe dwarves had furry feet too, but he thought he would never know because this dwarf, and for all he knew all dwarves, wore heavy boots - so heavy and so intricately laced that it seemed unlikely they ever took them off, even in bed. And then the way his thoughts had strayed to bed matters made him shy and awkward again, though Master Frodo smiled across at him encouragingly. Well, Master Frodo knew Sam was an inveterate game player and perhaps expected great victories from him. Hardly likely, in the face of the competition, but Sam was determined to do his best and make a good showing, one that would make his friends in The Shire proud. He had not won the local games championship three years in a row for nothing. His strategies and abilities would perhaps give these greater folk some pleasure before he was defeated. 

They were to play Journeys, Cities according to Boromir, and then Sam heard Elrond inviting him to choose a token. Boromir was clutching a small gilded horn, Bilbo had a notebook cunningly worked in wood, and Elrond had a jewel, its facets gleaming under the library lights, cloud grey with swirling depths. Sam chose a silver rose, its delicate petals almost lifelike. 

Again, he glanced at the nearest table and saw Frodo had a golden ring, not, thank goodness, an inscribed one and the wood elf, Prince Legolas if he remembered rightly, held a tiny quiver of minuscule arrows, fletched with scraps of feather. Strider was choosing between a miniature crown and an equally miniature sword while the dwarf held a stone axe perhaps the size of his thumb. 

"I hope your token is no omen," he called, and Frodo smiled. The quest must succeed, and Sam knew the other hobbit's gaming skills were weak, but he couldn't help but smile back. 

"No omens here," said Elrond, cheerfully. "People will choose, of course, something that has meaning for them, but beyond that, nothing is meant other than play."

And then their host was sharing out their starting coins, and Sam had to tuck his into a soft bag that he laid beside his place. Soon it was his turn to roll the engraved stones that would determine his path. 

It was difficult at first. Sam was accustomed to playing with people who spoke the same tongue and called things by the names hobbits had used for generations. Fortunately, Bilbo had lived long enough in Rivendell that he could switch between languages at the drop of a button.

"That's The Greenwood to you," he said, when Sam steered clear of Mirkwood and its webs. And then, "It's what we call The Toothed Tower," when Sam showed confusion over Isengard. Boromir laughed at that one but Elrond's face was shadowed.

Soon, however, Sam found himself charging Elrond to visit The White City of Minas Tirith, where he had amassed a pile of silvery houses, and levying a fine on the man who strayed into his portion of Lothlorien, as these folk seemed to call The Lady's Land. Bilbo kept looking at the pouch of coins that was bulging now. Sam gloated inwardly that he could make even his betters jealous. 

He was able to keep half an eye on the state of play, and half on the rest of the party. Strider, he thought, watched Boromir too much to the detriment of his own game. Boromir often returned the looks and Sam saw tenderness in their gaze that suggested something more than mere friendship. The elf and the dwarf at Frodo's table kept up a murmuring argument, each boasting of his own prowess but somehow accidentally allowing the other to shine. More tenderness, Sam thought, though they would not admit it yet. He risked a look at Frodo and wished... The other table was too far away to observe without contortion and he had no desire to be so rude to the players at his own board. 

He collected another round of coins, made Bilbo pay rent for a stay in a Rivendell filled with graceful buildings, narrowly escaped imprisonment in the Cracks of Doom - not, he hoped, another omen of any kind, even within the game - and then, to his wonder, found himself and Elrond the winners at their board. Bilbo and Boromir retired gracefully enough to watch the next match, and Sam noticed that Strider, another loser, made sure he sat very close to Boromir. Frodo, as he had expected, had also lost, but Pippin joined Gandalf as the winning pair from their table, and Sam heaved an internal sigh of relief knowing that hobbits were holding their own in this august company. 

 

 

"So, Samwise, we meet again." Lord Elrond was joining him alongside the dwarf, whose name, which he had heard before but forgotten, turned out to be Gimli. They chatted while elves brought snacks and drinks. There was hot tea made from some kind of herb that perhaps grew only in Rivendell. There were hot buns, each with an elvish rune baked onto the top in a different dough. There were fruits that dripped into the mouth and slid down the throat with promises of summer and reminders of seasons past. Sam thought that perhaps the elves knew a fair amount about eating and drinking. And about comfort.

"Bilbo travelled with my father, Gloin," said Gimli, presumably thinking that one dwarf and hobbit having some acquaintance would make it easier for another such pair to do likewise. Sam was not so sure but he was polite.

"The journey that Bilbo is writing about now?" He looked over at Frodo who was talking earnestly to his uncle. "The one that started the rumours of treasure at Bag End?"

"Bilbo gave up most of his treasure," said Gimli, "and in any case, from what my da said about Bag end there wasn't room for treasure unless you heaved out all the food, and I can't imagine a hobbit doing that!"

"Indeed not!" Sam laughed at the thought. "And my father has been the gardener and caretaker there for years. I think we would have seen any treasure chests arriving."

Gimli was happy to talk about Erebor and the way King Dain was refurbishing the place, and he was happy, too, to talk about axes and knives and other such marvels. And elves. 

"Most of my family hold no truck with elves," he said. "That's the way with dwarves and elves, you see. But I'll allow that they might be good archers, good cooks, and maybe good friends in a tight place." He looked sideways under his bristling brows as he said this to Sam, and they found Prince Legolas looking back at him, high elven brows raised and mouth pursed as if to blow a kiss. Except, of course, that it was probably an expression of some kind of distaste. Or not. Sam felt there were undercurrents as if a great pike was stirring in the deeper pools of the Brandywine.

Legolas was sitting with his own new group of players, Gandalf and Pippin. Merry was hovered beside Pippin, offering advice about the next game, which would be Words, or Scratchings, Scribblings or Tumbledown, or whatever the different races called it. 

"You don't have to know long words," Sam heard him say. "You just have to place them on the little spaces with stars or moons." Pippin didn't seem sure, and Sam couldn't remember him being a serious player in The Shire. He had done well in the last game, but perhaps by chance rather than through skill. Or perhaps because his opponents were even less skilled.

Sam loved a good game of Words, but then Elrond explained to the company at large that players could use their own language. This, thought Sam, was not fair. He had no way of knowing whether a word in Elvish or the dwarf tongue was permitted or not. For all he knew his opponents could cheat and he would be none the wiser. He could hardly argue with Elrond, but he felt more than a little disgruntled. 

The new boards were brought in, full of stars and half-moons instead of edged with cities and woods. The soft pouches of coins were replaced by racks of tiles, and at least Sam could see that everyone would use the same letters, the ones that Westron was written in. Only the vocabulary would be a mystery, then. 

He arranged his tiles on his rack and then racked his brains. His first ten letters were not conducive to a brilliant start. Then he realised he could make an Elvish word. He had been idly reading the titles on some of the books and now his wandering gaze was paying its way. Elrond laughed loudly and congratulated him. Then Gimli scowled and muttered something about his own language being a secret. However, he played a word, a word Sam did not know, and gained a few stars in the process. 

Don't worry Sam," said Frodo, from just behind him. “Elrond will query any dwarvish miss-spellings and Gimli will demand satisfaction if he doesn't understand an arcane elvish reference." He felt more at ease with Bilbo and Frodo standing near, ready to help. Not that he needed much in the way of aid, for this was one of the games at which he usually excelled, but it was comforting to have Master Frodo at his shoulder. Very comforting indeed. 

'Mellon', which Sam though was miss-spelt fruit, turned out to be the word for 'friend' and there were other misunderstandings that contributed to much hilarity on the part of the observers and much stress on the part of the participants. 

The men, who had both scored low in the first game, sat and enjoyed the fun. Their contribution to the quest was clearly to be brawn rather than brains, thought Sam, but he said nothing. Lord Elrond had recognised Strider as some kind of royalty, and Boromir was the son of someone important. A mere hobbit was not going to offend such important people.

Gimli and Legolas were constantly whispering across the tables, loud enough for the others to hear, but perhaps hoping nobody would listen. They gave each other words and hints and the Westron spellings. Lord Elrond consulted a huge tome once or twice. Sam simply used his wits and his extensive experience of the game and occasionally looked to Frodo for confirmation of a word that he laid out first on his rack. 

And then his final word, one that he found all by himself, was a long one. They were playing by rules that allowed place names, though not the names of people or he could have made 'Meriadoc' three times over and 'Took' more often still. As it was he was pleased to be able to add 'Brandywin' to the end of Elrond's 'baggage' and found himself covering stars and moons and becoming the outright winner. 

Gandalf, he gathered, had won at the other table.

 

 

When he got over the shock of his win and his new opponent, Sam looked around. Elves were carrying in plates heaped with crisp curled biscuits, slices of cheese, sugar confections and glasses of a foaming drink that changed colour as he watched. Legolas and Gimli had retired to a corner where they were squabbling amicably and very quietly. Strider and Boromir were standing looking out at the weather, their shoulders touching and their hands twitching with what Sam thought might be a need for further touch. Merry and Pippin were creating a game of their own, a kind of hide-go-seek around the library shelves, and he just hoped they wouldn't send anything flying. Bilbo was relaxing in one of the cosy chairs, smoking a pipe near an open window, and the Rivendell elves were chatting to him. 

If the games were intended to help in bonding the members of the fellowship they were already a success. 

Gandalf was already sitting opposite Sam, a gleam in his eye as he drank deeply from the rainbow draught. Frodo was beside Sam, ready to offer silent support. That was all he could offer, Sam thought, because the final game was to be shires, a game he had played often enough, but not against a wizard. But support from Master Frodo was something he would treasure. It gave him confidence and if he wished it could be more than support in a game, well, his old father had always said that if wishes were ponies, the poor would all ride. Which they didn't. Sam thought he best be content with what he had.

"The final round," said Lord Elrond, "will be a game of thrones." Seeing confusion on most faces he quickly explained. "Elves play thrones, hobbits play shires, dwarves, I think, play mines or sometimes mountains, and men play kingdoms. Whatever the name, the object is still to protect your royalty from your opponent, use your warriors great and small wisely, and work to defeat your enemy." He smiled, and Sam thought they all reflected for a moment on the great enemy the fellowship was formed to defeat.

The board was familiar, blue and gold squares shining up at him. Gandalf chose gold, almost diffidently, as though he thought Sam might object. But Sam had never had a preference and he collected his small blue army with a little sigh of possessive satisfaction. 

They set up the field in silence, then Merry broke it by exclaiming, "I don't suppose Sauron will let us be as neat and prepared."

"Fool of a Brandybuck," said Gandalf. "Of course he won't, but it's as well not to mention the matter, or the name, even here in Rivendell." His brows drew together in a frown then smoothed as he looked across at Sam, who was as ready as he would ever be for this onslaught, however unready he felt for the larger battle to come when they left on their quest. They had mentioned Sauron yesterday, in the Council Chamber, but perhaps that was warded and perhaps Sauron had a longer reach than any of them knew. 

"Let the last battle begin," said Lord Elrond, and Sam moved one of his foot soldiers a pace forwards. Blue always began. 

They played in a kind of bubble of silence, concentrating and considering. The others murmured around them but their words didn't penetrate Sam's consciousness as more than a faint buzzing as of bees. He feinted with his wizards and halls, vaguely hearing Gandalf call them rangers and fortresses. The rules were the same, however, and he was gaining ground. He hoped the old wizard wasn't just humouring him, letting him think he was making headway. He loved the game, and he wanted to win. Not that he thought for one moment that he could. A hobbit against a wizard?

Drinks were placed by their elbows. Frodo brought a plate of sweetmeats and put it where Sam could reach and take a morsel without his eyes leaving the board. 

He was aware that the light was changing, that what little brightness there was to the day had moved to the other side of the hills that ringed Rivendell and the library was in gloom.

A crash made him look up at last and he caught sight of Pippin red-faced and Merry hiding his head in his hands. As his concentration wavered he made what might have been a false move but then Strider called out, "Check! Full Check!" and he looked hard at their pieces. Gandalf's golden army was in disarray. Indeed, most of his foot soldiers were lying forlorn by Sam's side of the board. And Gandalf's royal pair were surrounded. By Sam's warriors.

"A winner! We have a winner!" Elrond grasped his arm and helped him to stand, to see the faces all turned his way, all admiring and pleased. 

 

 

"Sam Gamgee," said Gandalf, fondly and not at all put out at losing. "I will say to you what I once said to Bilbo. There is more to you than meets the eye. A worthy opponent indeed." He stroked his beard and started to put the pieces, gold and blue, back into a box lined with soft silk. 

"I won?" Sam was still bemused.

"You won," Lord Elrond confirmed. 

"You're a champion, Sam," said Pippin. "Have a cake. You've hardly eaten anything for the last hour or more."

"I had faith in you, Sam," said Frodo. "I knew you would carry the honour of The Shire." His eyes glowed with what could have been a kind of tenderness but was more probably just admiration. 

Sam gulped. What would his father say? Samwise Gamgee, victorious in such a company. And now he really did hope there was an omen somewhere.

As if to reassure him, the rain stopped, and the sun came from behind the clouds, throwing faint light through the library windows. 

"We can explore while the big folk are talking." That was Merry, always the optimist. 

"And our champion can lead the way," said Pippin, linking his arm through Merry's and looking expectantly at Sam.

"Not until after lunch," said Sam, firmly, and he led the way to the dining hall, knowing the others would follow.


End file.
